Kidnappers, Clankers, and the Coming Thing
by Julia456
Summary: Being a Thrilling True Account of the Adventures of Brisco County, Jr., Lord Bowler, Dylan Sharp, and Aleksandar Hohenberg, at the 1915 Panama-Pacific International Exposition.
1. Prelude

**Note:** This is technically a crossover, in that it mixes both the _Leviathan_ trilogy of YA novels and the axed-before-its-time TV show _The Adventures of Brisco County Jr._, but it's really a _Leviathan_ fic that features special guest appearances by the _Brisco_ world. That's not what I set out to do, but it's what the story wanted. *shrug*

I know of exactly 2 people on planet Earth who have both read _Leviathan_ AND watched _Brisco_ (**1.** me, and after some cajoling, **2.** my BFF), so here's a quick primer:

_Leviathan_ is adventure, dieselpunk, crossdressing, royalty on the run, mad science, snarky sidekicks, nosy reporters, romance, girls being awesome, talking animals, dazzling illustrations, World War I, and flying whale airships.

_Brisco_ is adventure, steampunk, comedy, Westerns, mysteries, tongue-in-cheek anachronisms galore, sci-fi, romance, a wonder horse, unlikely allies, killer theme music, and Pete's Piece. (_Nobody__ touches Pete's Piece!_)

If you like one, therefore, you'll probably like the other. I highly advise Leviathaneers to track down _Brisco_ on DVD (and sometimes YouTube). And _Brisco_ fans, definitely give _Leviathan_ a try. Preferably before you read this fic. :D

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PRELUDE

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They are undermanned, underequipped, and underprepared – but one could say the same regarding any troop of the Kaiser's soldiers. Indeed, Jäger thinks grimly, fixing his tie, one could say the same about the German Empire itself.

May, 1915. These are dire days.

He gives his disguise a last check, smoothing his hair in the mirror and tugging the waistcoat straight, then turns to his men, lined up for final inspection before they depart the relative safety of this place for the certain danger of the city. Jäger is somewhat skeptical of their abilities.

They were chosen for their other skills; subterfuge is no one's strength but his. All the same, if they do not perform to satisfaction tonight…

"Everyone understands their role," he says – not asks.

"Yes, sir!" the five men say in unison, crisp as any commander could wish.

"Failure tonight is not possible." Jäger paces down the line. He is a hunter as his name suggests. A hunter of men; a killer; a weapon of the Kaiser; and he levels a hunter's chilling stare at each of his men in turn. "We will succeed, or we will not leave San Francisco."

"Yes, sir!"

"The fate of the Empire is in our hands." He pauses at the end of the line. Turns.

At the other end of the line, Schultz is fidgeting with his tie. He catches sight of Jäger and drops his hands to his sides.

Jäger slowly, deliberately paces back to him. Schultz swallows. Jäger steps in closer to the sergeant.

"Failure is death," he says, his voice low, each word cold and sharp.

Schultz swallows again. His mustache twitches nervously. "Yes sir."

This is not an entirely acceptable answer. Jäger narrows his eyes. He steps back from the sergeant, preparing to address all of the men again, but stops when the door opens.

Braun enters with the last piece of their preparations tonight: a cowering American man that the lieutenant shoves forward roughly.

The American stumbles and falls, landing on his hands and knees. He looks around fearfully, a lock of brown hair falling into his eyes.

Jäger crouches in front of him. "Hello," he says in English, not unfriendly. "We have been expecting you."

"Hi, I'm Todd," the man says. His voice quavers. "Are you – are you going to kill me?"

Jäger smiles – a cat playing with a wounded bird. "That depends," he says, "on how helpful you are, Todd."

Todd looks around again, then back at Jäger. "Anything you want, sir. Just please – don't kill me. And don't knock me out and hide me in the cellar, either. That's – that's not very pleasant." He adds, in a shuddering whisper, "There are _very_ large spiders."

Jäger puts a hand on the American's shoulder. Todd flinches away, then freezes, obviously worrying that he's upset his captor. Good. "There is no need for unpleasantness," Jäger says, still smiling. "We are all civilized men."

"Okay," Todd says. He hazards a weak smile that collapses into fear moments later. "I mean, yes, very civilized, sir. Anything you want, sir."

The German Empire, with its superior mechanikals, is the height of civilization. These Americans, who have allowed godless Darwinist abominations to proliferate in their land – they are hardly better than the savage Indians who once roamed it.

Jäger withholds his disdain and keeps his smile. "Here is what you must do."

He explains. Todd listens. Todd, of course, agrees. Todd even stands and checks everyone's disguises, making minute adjustments, offering advice on the roles they are to play.

Todd is extremely helpful.

Jäger watches with some satisfaction and a growing sense of confidence. Dire days – but not desperate ones, not yet. Germany will prevail. _He_ will prevail.

He had intended to kill the American, but decides that, when all is said and done, he will knock Todd unconscious and leave him tied up in the cellar, preferably near very large spiders.

Jäger will shortly be lauded as the savior of Germany; he deserves _some_ amusement, after all.

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**Note:** Todd was in "The Orb Scholar", "And Baby Makes Three" (where he was knocked out, though not placed in a cellar with large spiders), and "Bounty Hunters' Convention". I love ya, Todd!

Jäger and his boys, on the other hand, are all mine. We'll be seeing them again. ;)


	2. Chapter ONE, part 1

Chapter ONE

"I Left My Loris in San Francisco"

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" 'The Westerfield Club'," Alek says, reading from one of the fancy brass plates affixed to the gate's stone pillars as their carriage rolls through. "_Westerfield_. That sounds so familiar…"

Deryn rolls her eyes. "Aye, so you've said – a thousand times today. It'd be nice if you'd remember _why_ it's so barking familiar."

Alek merely shakes his head, frowning to himself. Deryn gives up on any conversation with him and instead makes certain Bovril is settled on her shoulder. San Francisco is cold and stuffed with fog this evening; no place for a loris to get lost, even a perspicacious one.

From her seat opposite them, Dr. Barlow says, "It hardly matters. We shall only be spending a few hours here, if that, before returning to the Exposition."

Beside her, Count Volger looks as though he wants to say something unpleasant (for the thousandth time today) about the Panama-Pacific International Exposition, but he satisfies himself with a scowl and a curt, "Unless you mean to spend those few hours in the taxi, perhaps we should disembark."

Deryn rolls her eyes again – this time, when she's safely turned away from the count. Between his fussing and Dr. Barlow's demands, it's been a long trip already. And they still have two more days at the Exposition, and she's almost certain the lady boffin means to accept a last-minute invitation to speak at some museum in Chicago...

"Oh well," she mutters under her breath as she hops down from the hired carriage. Her knee twinges a bit – all this bloody damp weather – and she stands for a moment, scratching Bovril's head. "At least it'll be more time aloft, aye, beastie?"

"More time aloft," it says softly, shivering in the chill evening air. There are electrikal lights aglow everywhere, but all they do is make the fog brighter.

She gives the loris another scratch behind the ears and then falls in beside Alek, who's following Volger and Dr. Barlow inside.

"Rather cold this evening," Alek says to no one in particular, secretly brushing hands with Deryn behind their guardians' backs.

A pleasant shiver goes up her spine. It has sod all to do with the weather.

"Who's this boffin fellow again?" she asks as they're ushered inside the Westerfield Club.

"Professor Albert Wickwire. An inventor, apparently, of the Clanker variety," Dr. Barlow says. "I'll confess I haven't much knowledge of his work. He was most insistent that I attend this advance unveiling of his newest project, however."

Volger harrumphs, but says nothing.

The Club servant shows them to a large library, then bows and whisks himself away. A raised dais has been set up across the far end of the room, with a table that's been draped with sheets so all you can see are mysterious lumps and bumps. A large placard behind it proclaims the thing on the table to be "A Thrilling Glimpse Of The Future!"

Exactly like every sodding display she's seen this week at the Exposition. They've given the different exhibition halls fancy names – the Palace of Agriculture, the Palace of Mines and Metallurgy, the Palace of Food Products – but it's really six hundred thirty-five acres of politicians and boffins and engineers, all loudly pushing themselves forward as the best and most modern in the world.

The only worthwhile inventions being shown, in Deryn's opinion, are the nimble little Clanker flying contraptions and sleekly modern airbeasts that run demonstrations daily from the Athletics-Aviation Field. Since they arrived at the Exposition last week, she's managed to attend all but one of those, and she's on quite friendly terms with the pilots and airmen now, frequently going up as a "special assistant"; that Mr. Art Smith, famous for his aerobatical shows, even let Alek have a go at piloting a gyrothopter once.

She'd love to be in the air right now, that's for bloody certain.

Standing about and chatting in front of the Westerfield Club's "Thrilling Glimpse" is a small crowd of well-to-do folks. Lots of portly men with cigars, lots of boffins with black bowler hats and spectacles, a few ladies awash with feathers and jewels.

Deryn knew what she'd be in for tonight, of course, as soon as Dr. Barlow told her to wear "Dylan's" best suit… but she gives an inward sigh all the same.

"I wonder why the professor chose to show his project here," Alek says, looking around. He seems politely curious – but then, none of the fancy-boots places they've been this week have much impressed him. Even the Exposition's Tower of Jewels elicited no more from him than mild admiration. He might be calling himself a commoner now, Deryn thinks, watching him, but he's still a barking prince at heart. "Why not at the Exposition?"

"Frankly, I have no idea," a cheerful voice says behind them. Deryn turns to see an old man, a complicated set of goggles perched atop his snow-white head and a friendly smile stretching beneath a bristling mustache. "To raise more money, would be my guess. But don't ask me; my daughter's the one who– Ah, Doctor Barlow! You came! Looking lovelier than ever, if I might say so!"

He takes the lady boffin's hand and plants a gallant kiss on her gloved knuckles.

"Professor Wickwire," Dr. Barlow says. Amusement plays at the corners of her mouth. "Of course. I couldn't refuse such a generous invitation, after all."

"It is an _honor_ to have you. Here! One of the great minds of our time! To have you here to see – whatever it is I'm going to show you!" the professor says enthusiastically, if not coherently. "And you brought companions! Outstanding!"

Dr. Barlow makes introductions, and Wickwire shakes hands all around. He's got quite a grip for an old man, Deryn thinks. She likes him, for all that he seems more than a squick dotty.

"Hohenberg?" he says when he gets round to Alek. His eyes light up. "Say, you're that young fellow who worked with Tesla!"

"Um – yes, sir," Alek says. He doesn't light up. Instead, he gets that stiff and princely look on his face, the one he uses to hide the fact that he hates discussing the late Nikola Tesla.

"Brilliant man. _Wonderful_ inventions," the professor says, grinning ear-to-ear before sobering: "The weapons were too destructive for my tastes, but really, some very clever stuff. Shame it killed him."

It was Alek who killed him. And it's Alek who still has sodding nightmares.

Deryn coughs and says, "Dr. Wickwire –"

"Oh, I'm not a doctor, son," Wickwire says, still cheerful. He winks at her and holds up a finger. "Just a chemist, physicist, and experimentalist!"

"And to what university do you belong, Professor?" Count Volger asks, coolly polite.

"Hm?" the professor says, blinking. "Beg pardon?"

Volger presses further: "Are you currently sitting on a faculty?"

The professor blinks again, then frowns, apparently at a loss. "Am I?"

"Professor," Dr. Barlow says, taking the man's arm, "might I trouble you for a glimpse of your invention? My perspicacious loris is quite interested."

"Is that what those little guys are!" Wickwire exclaims, his enthusiastic grin returning. "I thought they were monkeys."

The lady boffin's loris sniffs. "I haven't much knowledge of his work," it says, sounding twice as snooty as usual.

"It hardly matters," Bovril says from Deryn's shoulder.

The professor's head swivels back and forth between the two lorises as if he's found a wonderful new puzzle and is eager to begin working it out. "Perspicacious… Oh! I get it! Marvelous! Remarkable work, Dr. Barlow, simply remarkable. But yes, right this way!"

Wickwire leads Dr. Barlow towards the shrouded table, leaving the rest of them to their own devices.

That suits Deryn fine. She gives Bovril to Alek and wanders around the room for a bit. There are waiters in sharp red waistcoats carrying trays of food and drinks, much to her delight, and she takes quite a few samples. Eventually, she sees that Dr. Barlow and her loris are peering at the partly-revealed invention, which (no surprise) looks to be some sort of Clankerish collection of metal, gears, and other bits, while Wickwire points things out enthusiastically. Volger, meanwhile, is deep in conversation with a fellow wearing spectacles.

Perfect.

She catches Alek's eye across the room and nods in the direction of the door. He grins, then quickly schools his expression and puts his back to her.

Deryn slips out of the room and waits in the hall, half-hidden behind a barking enormous Oriental vase holding a fabricated fern nearly twice as big, while she munches on a last _hors d'oeuvre_.

After a minute, Alek appears, and together they start down the hall. No discussion needed; they've done this before, after all.

It's pure dead easy to sneak off at a party. And much more fun than listening to boffins blether on about science.

Deryn tries a few doors along the way, but all of them seem to be locked. "Where's Bovril?" she asks, keeping her voice low.

"I left it with Dr. Barlow," he says, also speaking quietly. "It wanted to examine Professor Wickwire's machine."

"What _is_ his machine?"

"I'm not certain. Some sort of transmitter, I think."

"Lovely," she says, losing interest, and then – "Oi, this one's open!"

They check to make certain the hallway and the unlocked room are empty, then duck inside, shutting the door securely behind them. It's an office. The walls are lined with bookshelves, which are filled with thick, dull-looking books, and the huge desk in the middle – also stuffed with books and papers – is sitting on a fancy rug.

Deryn's considering the possibility of getting Alek up on that desk (preferably with his shirt open), when he takes her by the hands and pulls her towards the bookshelves.

"We only have a few minutes," he says.

She gives him a suspicious squint. "Why?"

He looks away, embarrassed. "I want to hear about the professor's machine."

She snorts. "You daft Clanker."

He doesn't try to refute it. Instead, he leans forward and kisses her lightly, gently, on the mouth – enough to make electricity crackle the air between them. "We might make up the time later… if you sneak into my hotel room," he whispers. His breath is hot on her skin, and what he's proposing sets her innards alight.

She grins and pushes him back a half-step, so that his spine is pressed against the shelves and one of his knees is between her legs. "Aye, I think I will."

His hands settle on her hips and pull her closer yet; he smirks. "Are you certain that you can manage?" he asks, teasing. "There aren't any balconies to leap between."

"Just you sodding wait," she murmurs, brushing her lips over his jaw and around to his ear. She nips at his earlobe.

"Deryn," he says, a plea barely louder than a breath. His fingers tighten on her hips; she obliges him by rocking forward.

"Just wait, love," she says into his hair, breathing in the warm scent of him. Blisters, he makes her dizzy sometimes. She draws back. Moves to kiss him properly –

- and the doorknob rattles a half-second before the door is shoved open.

Deryn and Alek both jump, but at least they jump apart. And at least they're not too mussed yet. The last time Volger found them, she had her shirt most of the way off and her bindings half undone, which was a bit tricky.

But it isn't Volger, she sees straightaway. It's one of the men from the library, wearing a black suit, a string tie, and a frown. He sizes them up and takes a few strides into the room, demanding, "All right, what're you boys up to?"

"Nothing, sir," Alek says. Deryn could kick him; saying _Nothing_ is the surest way to make people think _Something_.

"We're a bit lost, is all," she says quickly, trying to fix the damage. "We went looking for the head and got turned around."

The man raises one eyebrow. "The what?"

"The loo," she says, then remembers Americans have a different name for it, though she doesn't remember what that is. "Um – the lavatory."

That gets his other eyebrow to hike up as well. "You were looking for the john, and just happened to end up in an attorney's office instead. With the door shut. Lurking in the corner."

Deryn meets his eyes straight on and steady, daring him to call her a liar. "Aye, that's it exactly."

"Uh-huh," the man says. He has a sharpish nose and a square chin; twenty years ago, he might have been quite handsome. Now there's more gray than brown in his hair, and the shadow of a beard on his jaw only makes him look tired, not rakish. "Who are you kids here with?"

"We aren't children," Alek says, indignant.

"Uh-huh." The man shifts his feet to a wider stance and puts his hands on his hips. He's got a revolver holstered under his jacket, Deryn sees with a jolt. Blisters! This is San Francisco they're in, not the Wild West! He's not going to _shoot_ them, is he?

"But you did come with someone. The British lady doctor, right? And the German fellow with the –?" The man makes a gesture at his face to indicate a great, bristling mustache.

"He's Austrian," Alek says stiffly. "As am I."

"Right. Very fancy." The man nods in the direction of the open door. "So let's go ask _them_ what you're doing."

Deryn exchanges a quick glance with Alek. He's doing his best to keep a blank expression, but she can see the hint of panic in his eyes.

It's pure dead easy to sneak off at a party, all right - but that doesn't mean they haven't been told _not_ to.

"Out, both of you," the man orders.

But no one has a chance to move a step, because from down the hall there's a sudden flash of light – and then, half an instant later, a titanic **BOOM** that knocks everyone to the floor.


	3. Chapter ONE, part 2

**Note:** Amanda Wickwire was seen in the pilot episode and never again, though her right hook shall live on in memory. Professor Wickwire's airship was only seen in the series finale, "High Treason, Part 2", where it was the source of many excellent Led Zeppelin jokes. (And also caused a character to exclaim, "It's a flying whale!" Many LOLs from me on the rewatch.)

Now for a historical factoid: Art Smith, the PPIE's "aeronaut", was a real person. He replaced Louis Beachey, who died early in 1915 when a stunt went awry. Smith was pretty awesome: he pioneered night skywriting – with flares! Plus, on a tour of Japan, he inadvertently inspired a young man named Honda Soichiro to pursue a career in machinery.

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Alek finds himself face-down on the carpet, his ears ringing and his attic, as Deryn would say, just a little scrambled. For a moment he doesn't remember what happened. Then it begins to come back.

There was an explosion –

He shakes his head, trying to clear it, even as Deryn grabs his arm and hauls him upright. The office swims and he puts a hand out, holding onto the bookshelves to regain his balance. The bookshelves are much emptier now, since most of their contents are lying spilled across the floor.

The man with the gun is gone. Or did Alek imagine that encounter?

"Alek! Blisters, are you all right?"

"Yes," he says, though he isn't certain. He thinks perhaps he's hit his head again – things have that same dreamlike feel, and Deryn's voice sounds as though it comes from kilometers away. He looks at the papers scattered around the room, wondering how they got there.

Nevertheless, he pushes off from the shelf towards the door when Deryn tugs on his sleeve, saying, "Come on!"

The hallway is in chaos. It's filled with acrid smoke and panicked people, who seem to be fleeing in every direction simultaneously. He fights to stay with Deryn. Some of the gentlemen he recognizes from the library –

_The library._

Suddenly, everything snaps back into focus. He pushes past a gasping woman, his heart in his throat.

Wickwire's unknown machine. Explosion. Barlow, Bovril, Volger.

_Mein Gott_, he thinks, _let them not have still been in the library. Let Volger have noticed that we snuck away; let him have come looking for us. Let_ –

A gunshot. Two. Three. Shrieks. Cries. And then he and Deryn are in the library… or what's left of it.

A rather large hole has been blasted into one wall, with the majority of the debris blown outwards, into the Westerfield Club's courtyard. Small fires are blazing here and there, among piles of toppled books, but that's not what draws Alek's attention. Neither is the old-fashioned shoot-out going on in the courtyard, apparently between the man with the gun and the… the waiters, who are trying to reach a passenger walker.

No. It's the figure sheltering behind the overturned table, blood soaking into his sleeve and a very distressed loris clinging to his head, hampering his efforts to remove his jacket and stop the bleeding.

"Count Volger!" Alek cries. He moves to cross the library – but Deryn grabs his jacket and hauls him back. A fraction of a second later, a volley of bullets crack into the bookshelves, perilously close by.

"Aye, but where's the lady boffin?" she asks, then stoops to draw the knife she keeps tucked in her boot. "Sod it all, never mind!"

"What are you –"

"He needs help!"

For a moment Alek thinks she means Volger, but of course she charges through the breach to assist the man with the gun.

Instead of rushing out unarmed, Alek ducks his head and hurries to Volger's side, reaching the safety of the overturned table just as bullets thud into the thick, fabricated wood.

God's wounds, he didn't need so much excitement tonight. He'd been hoping for a few minutes alone with Deryn and an interesting lecture. Now he's given himself another concussion, Volger is hurt, and Deryn is being shot at by waiters.

"Count! Where are you injured?" he says in German, trying to catch Volger's sleeve. It was obvious after even a cursory glance that the loris isn't Bovril, but Alek is presently more concerned about the blood than his missing beastie.

"If you wish to help, you could remove this creature," the count says through clenched teeth.

Alek blinks and then grabs Dr. Barlow's loris by the scruff of its neck, lifting it away from Volger's head. It clings to fistfuls of the count's hair, yelping and yipping like Tazza, and Alek nearly forgets the shoot-out going on behind them in his struggle to pry the loris' tiny claws loose.

"Where's Sharp?" Volger demands, pulling away and losing some hair in the process.

"Out there," Alek says. The loris wraps its limbs around his upper arm with terrified strength; he winces and tries to shift it onto his shoulder. "Where's Dr. Barlow?"

Volger's response is buried beneath a sudden increase in noise. In the courtyard, an engine throttles up even as the exchange of gunfire quickens pace. Deryn and the man with the gun are shouting to each other over the din.

Alek hazards a glance around the bullet-chewed edge of the table. As he does, Deryn steps out from behind the cover of a half-wrecked walker and throws her knife at two waiters struggling to load Professor Wickwire's mysterious invention into the walker. The hilt of her knife strikes one of the waiters on the forehead; his eyes roll up and he staggers, dropping his end of the machine. It hits the ground with a nasty _clunk!_

Instantly, another waiter begins shouting orders in German. Two of the others break off and hurry to help get the invention and the wounded man aboard, while the waiter giving orders continues to pepper Deryn and the man's positions with gunfire.

Then he, too, climbs into the passenger walker – though not before pulling the pin from a grenade and tossing it towards the Westerfield Club's ruined library. It plinks, bounces, and rolls to a stop in the debris of the courtyard.

Mere feet from Deryn.

It hardly takes more than the space of a breath for the grenade to explode, and yet to Alek it lasts a terrible eternity – knowing he cannot possibly reach Deryn in time, knowing that she is about to be ripped away from him.

But even as the grenade falls, the man with the gun abandons his sheltered position to rush Deryn's. Slams into her. His momentum sends them both flying, tumbling, to the ground –

- the grenade explodes in a flash of fire, and Alek instinctively hides his face, and when he looks again -

- Deryn and the man are both somehow, impossibly, wondrously _safe_.

And, of course, the waiters' passenger walker is disappearing into the fog-shrouded streets of San Francisco.

"Barking spiders!" Deryn says, scrambling to her feet and vigorously dusting off her jacket. "Thanks, sir."

The man with the gun is still sprawled on the ground. He coughs, groans, grimaces, and waves off her gratitude – though he accepts the hand she offers. "Anytime, kid," he says as she hauls him upright.

Alek leaves Volger and moves to Deryn's side. He would like to examine her head-to-toe, gather her into a fierce hug, and kiss her until he's certain she's alive and well, but of course he can't worry for _Dylan_ that way.

And besides: she would hate the fuss.

"Are you all right?" he asks instead, trying to sound like a friend and not a worried beau.

"Aye, fine," she says impatiently. "But those Clanker bastards are getting away!"

"Yeah. Yeah, they sure are. With the professor and his invention and a hell of a head start," the man with the gun says. He seems to be in no great rush; he grimaces and rotates his shoulder, looking around the courtyard with sharp eyes. "Not much we can do about that right now. And they grabbed someone else, too – a woman. Didn't see who."

Deryn looks around, too. "You don't reckon – the lady boffin?"

"They took her," Count Volger says, joining them. One hand is clamped tightly to the wound on his arm; his face, as he stares after the vanished walker, is a hard mask. "Damn them," he adds in German, but so softly that Alek thinks he doesn't mean to be heard.

Alek clears his throat. "And what about Bovril?"

Dr. Barlow's loris digs its claws into Alek's jacket and rambles, "My perspicacious loris is quite interested. Trouble you. Look at your invention. Loris. Trouble. _They come not single spies, but in battalions. _Unhand me!"

"Bovril? Is that another one of the monkey things?" the man with the gun says, nodding at the loris while reloading his pistol. "I saw one hanging on the professor."

"They're perspicacious lorises, sir," Deryn says. "And aye, that was probably Bovril."

She sounds furious and frightened all at once. Alek feels much the same and moves slightly closer to her. She glances at him sidelong, her blue eyes saying volumes, then looks away again.

"By the way – Brisco County, Jr., at your service," the man says. He sticks a hand out and Alek shakes it automatically, introducing himself as he does. "I'm a U.S. Marshal. Sorry about the, uh, mix-up earlier. We were looking for German spies, you kids were sneaking around, he was _sprechen Sie Deutsch_…"

"Indeed," Volger says with a hard look at Alek. "An understandable mistake."

Alek keeps his face impassive. They've larger problems than a bit of unauthorized sneaking around.

Deryn likewise shakes hands and makes her introductions to Marshal County. Apparently oblivious to Volger's disapproving stares, County claps her on the shoulder and asks, "Where'd you learn to throw a knife like that, kid?"

"The Royal Air Service," she says, lifting her chin. "I was a midshipman."

"Huh. Go figure." County turns to Volger.

"Wildcount Volger. You'll forgive me if I don't shake your hand," Volger says, dry, still gripping his arm. He has gone rather pale, Alek notes, worried.

"Yeah, you need to have that looked at," County says. He turns around, scanning the courtyard for something. "When Soc gets here – there he is!"

The marshal whistles loudly and waves at someone hurrying in from the street – a balding, bespectacled man in a conservative suit. He's accompanied by several police officers and Club servants, some of them carrying buckets of water to douse lingering flames. As he draws closer, Alek recognizes him from an earlier introduction in the library, before he'd snuck off to join Deryn.

The man has a peculiar name, Alek remembers. Something Greek. Euripides, Sophocles – ah! Mr. Socrates Poole, an attorney or somesuch. Presumably the "Soc" referred to by Marshal County.

Mr. Poole is out of breath when he arrives. He hands over a heavy brown gun belt to County. "Brisco! Are you all right? Don't tell me they got away!"

"I'm fine, I'm fine." County turns to the police officers, buckling on the gun belt. "Get on the wireless. Tell the checkpoints to stop any walkers with gunshot damage – hey, you guys are Clankers, what make was that bucket of bolts?"

Volger, still a cavalry officer at heart, has never taken much interest in passenger walkers. Alek, on the other hand, is a walker pilot and has been haunting the Palace of Transportation as well as the mile-long race track since his arrival at the Exposition. American walkers are prominently displayed at both.

"I believe it was a Packard, sir," he says.

"Right, a Packard full of bullet holes. Should be pretty easy to spot."

The police officers give a ragged chorus of "yessir" and run off, badges and buttons glinting.

County's not finished issuing orders. "Soc, get Volger here to a doctor."

Mr. Poole nods earnestly, but Volger's eyes narrow. He says, coldly, "First, I believe, an explanation is due."

County scratches at the back of his neck. "Well, see, Soc or I could probably sew you up, but a doctor has actual _training_ –"

"Quite droll," Volger says. He has gone much too pale, and the dark stain on his shirtsleeve is much too large; there is, however, nothing but steel in his voice: "Do you believe this is a time for jokes? Britain's preeminent fabricator – the granddaughter of Charles Darwin himself – has been kidnapped by, as you claim, German spies. A presumably dangerous machine and its inventor are likewise in their hands. Your building is in ruins, and so is, I would assume, your grand and clever scheme for preventing exactly this outcome."

County eyes him for a moment, then clicks his tongue against his teeth. "Fair enough. A few weeks ago, I was contacted by Wickwire's daughter Amanda. She was worried the Germans were going to make a move on the professor while he was in town for the Expo."

Mr. Poole says, helpless, "We arranged this whole – unveiling – to try to keep him _safe_ from the Germans."

Not entirely too low to be heard, Deryn mutters, "Bollixed _that_ up."

"Why do they want him so badly?" Alek asks. They must want him quite badly indeed, to stage an assault on a posh club in the middle of San Francisco.

"He sold von Zeppelin an airship in '94," County says. "They've kept an eye on him ever since, and once the war started… Short version: they want him to make weapons."

Deryn looks at the marshal askance. "But the war is over."

"Not until the Kaiser surrenders," Poole corrects. He pushes his spectacles up with one finger, looking and sounding very much the lawyer.

Unfortunately, it's the truth. Germany has been brought to the negotiating table, but they haven't signed anything yet. As for Austria-Hungary, Emperor Franz Joseph – intractably loyal to oaths, regardless of consequences – has likewise refused to acknowledge defeat. The shooting may have largely ceased, but technically, the war continues.

County adds, "And I'm guessing that the Germans think the professor's invention can still turn the tide in their favor."

"Blisters," Deryn says, her eyes widening. "It'd take something sodding huge to pull them out of the hole they're in now!"

"A _Chiroptera mechanika_, as it were," the loris says loudly. Then it cackles madly. "Trouble you. In battalions. Exactly, my dear!"

There's a moment of silence as everyone pauses to stare at the loris on Alek's shoulder. Alek wonders if perhaps the creature ought to be examined by a physician, too.

In the pause, sirens can be heard: faint, but drawing nearer. Presumably the city's firemen.

"Wickwire thinks big," County says, picking up the conversation. "And he doesn't always know what he's got. For what it's worth, Amanda is convinced that whoever has this thing can win any war they want."

Alek catches Deryn's eye. He is suddenly and resolutely certain that they are _meant_ to be here on this night - that they are meant to stop this last desperate action of the Kaiser to prolong the war, equally as much as they were meant to prevent Tesla's mad, brutal plot to end it.

Having Bovril and Dr. Barlow in peril is awful on a personal level, of course, but knowing that the war could reignite...

"If you're going after them, sir," he says, facing Marshal County again, "we're coming along."

"Aye," Deryn says simply, but the word brims with determination.

Mr. County hesitates. "Uh, yeah… I don't know, boys… This is pretty much guaranteed to get ugly."

"Foolish, of course," Volger says briskly, "but you are unlikely to dissuade them. And they are occasionally more capable than they appear. They may be useful to you."

High praise indeed. And unspoken permission for Alek and Deryn to carry on as they wish.

"Thank you, Count," Alek says softly.

The count gives Alek a nod that implies a full bow, then turns to Mr. Poole. "A surgeon's services were offered."

"Oh, yes, right," Poole says. "There were several in the library, luckily. Everyone's been moved to the east wing –"

"Could you also have Dr. Barlow's loris examined," Alek says – not asks – lifting the creature from his shoulder and depositing it on Mr. Poole's.

The loris chitters manically and immediately climbs atop the lawyer's head, clinging there like a rather wide-eyed toupee. "Um… Of course," Mr. Poole says, trying to be agreeable and pry the loris free at the same time. He's successful at neither, and his tone becomes more openly sarcastic: "I'm sure we can find a zoologist… that makes house calls… in the middle of the night."

Mr. Poole and Count Volger begin to walk away.

"And Socrates! Preserve the scene until we get back," Mr. County calls after them. He makes a looping gesture at the entire Westerfield Club courtyard. Poole lifts an acknowledging hand; the other one is still tugging at the loris.

"Come on," County says to Deryn and Alek. He hurries through the courtyard and turns up the street, the two young people following hard on his heels. There is a hum of activity in one direction – lights, people, vehicles of all kind arriving.

They go the other way.

"Where're we bound?" Deryn asks.

"Not too far – a house on Nob Hill." Mr. County brings them to a brightly-lit, relatively busy cross street and stops on the sidewalk. He whistles again, this time lifting a hand to flag a taxi. One immediately appears: a carriage drawn by a fabricated beast. "Your count was right about my plan going up in flames, along with the library," the marshal adds. He gives an address to the driver and hops into the carriage with Deryn and Alek. "Must be getting old. We need a tracker now. Luckily, I know just the guy."

The taxi lurches into motion. Alek tries to resolve his mental image of a Wild West tracker, squinting through the grit of a desert trail, with the high-society mansions of Nob Hill. He is not entirely successful. "There's a tracker living on Nob Hill?"

"Yeah," Mr. County says. He seems pleased. "Lord Bowler, manhunter."

Alek looks at Deryn; Deryn looks at him; they both look at Marshal County.

"_Lord Bowler_?" they ask in unison.


	4. Chapter ONE, part 3

**Note:** Bowler mentions retiring to a winery in "Bye Bly"; his mansion is on Nob Hill in "A.K.A. Kansas". Lenore turns up in "Hard Rock" – also where we learn Bowler's real name. Brisco's attitude towards motorized vehicles comes from the episode "Steel Horses". Finally, the tooth-spitting line is from "The Bounty Hunters' Convention", though it wasn't Bowler who originally said it.

The late Julius Carry (who played Lord Bowler) was also known for his role as Sho'Nuff, the Shogun of Harlem, in the 1985 cult classic film _The Last Dragon_.

I should also note that I made Brisco a US Marshal because his daddy was one. I can't really justify it beyond that. ;)

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Nob Hill is south of the wharfs and east of the Exposition. It's not a far trip from the Westerfield Club, in terms of distance – and certainly not at the speed their taxi is going.

Deryn doesn't mind the hurry, even though their hired carriage rattles and bumps over the cobblestones, making her knock into Alek every few feet. Right now, she wants to move quickly.

There's nothing clever about rushing into a war, but ever since she caught a last glimpse of the Germans' passenger walker disappearing into the fog, she's been itching to set after it. Bovril and the lady boffin – to say nothing of that dotty, kindly professor – don't deserve to be in those bastards' hands a moment longer than they must.

The taxi reaches the bottom of a hill and promptly goes up another. Deryn can hear the driver urging the beastie on with shouts and a few whipcracks.

A glance out of the windows reveals passing streetlamps struggling to push through the thick night fog. San Francisco is quite foggy, even by London standards; the houses are buried out of sight.

"Walkers must be better at managing the inclines," Alek says, in the absent tone of someone who's got too much on his mind. She resists the urge to touch his hand.

"Yeah, but I don't trust machines. All metal, no brains," Mr. County says. He shrugs out of his jacket, removes the shoulder holster and its pistol, and hands both to Alek. "Here you go, kid, put that on. We'll borrow a gun from Bowler for you, Dylan."

The marshal still has the heavy, tooled leather gun belt buckled around his hips. The revolver holstered there has a carved ivory handle and looks… _comfortable_, almost, as if it's a weapon he knows as well as his own hand.

Deryn flexes her foot, feeling the rigging knife tucked inside her boot. She reckons she and Mr. County have a few things in common, at least. "My knife's all right, sir."

Alek fumbles with the shoulder holster a bit before getting it in place. "His name isn't really Lord Bowler, is it?"

Only boffins wear bowlers; that's as true as _The sun rises to the east_. Deryn can't think of anyone not a boffin who'd even want to wear a bowler, let alone name themselves after it. "Barking strange thing to call yourself."

Mr. County chuffs in amusement. "No one ever made an issue of it, believe me. It's James Lonefeather. But _don't_ call him that, and don't tell him I told you."

"Fair enough," Alek says, echoing the marshal's earlier words.

The carriage rattles to a stop, and County hastens to open the door. "I just hope he's not out at his vineyard."

Alek's eyebrow goes up. "He owns a vineyard."

Deryn's next out of the carriage, glad to be back on solid ground – even if it is sloped strongly. Hills and fog and Clanker trolleys that will run you over in a trice: that's San Francisco. Her knee sends up a warning twinge, which she ignores. There isn't time for it.

"Yeah, in Napa, north of here," the marshal says as Alek disembarks. He hands over some money to the driver along with instructions to wait. "A winery, too. They give tours. Very fancy."

"And this man was a bounty hunter?" Alek asks.

"One of the best." There's a short flight of steps to the front door; County takes them two at a time, while Deryn makes a show of casually strolling up, hoping Alek won't notice she's favoring her knee. "That's why he could afford the vineyard – _and_ why I know he can track a walker across San Francisco."

He raps briskly on the door, which is all carved wood and fancy cut glass and lace curtains behind that. The house itself is fine red brick and three stories tall. It doesn't match her idea of a retired bounty hunter, that's for certain.

Presently a wizened, white-haired butler opens the door, looking exactly like someone who works for a lord.

"Good evening, sirs," the butler says in a British accent. Deryn's eyebrow lifts. Sounds exactly like, too. Blisters; how'd he end up in _California_? "May I help you?"

County runs a hand though his hair. "Heya, Reginald. Is Bowler in?"

"His lordship is indeed in residence, Mr. County. Shall I inform him that you wish an audience?"

"Yeah, thanks. Oh, and – tell him it's urgent."

The butler bows and closes the door again.

"It'll just be a second," the marshal assures Deryn and Alek.

And indeed, only a few moments later, heavy footfalls rattle the cut glass. The door is abruptly yanked open and James Lonefeather, alias Lord Bowler, manhunter, appears in the doorway of his fancy house with an embroidered napkin tucked into his shirtfront and a deadly glare etched into his dark-skinned face.

Deryn has been glared at by all sorts of experts in the art, most notably Count Volger. She's given quite a few champion glares of her own. And yet even she can't resist an inward flinch.

Partly it's because Lord Bowler is barking _huge_; she has to tip her head back to look at him properly.

And partly it's because he's barking terrifying.

"_Brisco_. I shoulda known it'd be you," he snarls, snatching the napkin from his shirt and crumpling it in one massive fist. "Haven't seen you in half a year and now you interrupt my dinner with a bunch of dang kids!"

Deryn and Alek both take a half-step backwards. It's instinctive.

"Hello, Bowler," County says, unruffled. In fact, he's smiling. "How've you been?"

"Fine," the man says. He's still glaring. Deryn sees why he was never bothered about his nickname; this fellow could dress up like the sodding Emperor of Japan, take a stroll through the middle of New York City at midday, and no one would dare say a word. "Well? What'd you want? My _supreme de volaille aux champignons_ is gettin' cold!"

The marshal says, "Professor Wickwire's been kidnapped. We could use your help."

Bowler blinks, looking momentarily concerned – but only momentarily. Then the scowl returns. "He sure causes a lot of trouble for an old man."

"First off, Bowler, he's not that much older than we are. And second – come on, it's not his fault he was kidnapped!"

"Yeah, and I _might've_ agreed with you the first _five times_ it happened!"

Alek says, alarmed, "This has happened before?"

Lord Bowler says "_Yes_," at the same time County says, "Well… kind of."

"Different reasons, same damn results." The bounty hunter turns his scowl onto Deryn and Alek. "And who're these kids anyway?"

"Oh, right. This is Alek, who used to be a prince, and Dylan, who used to be a midshipman." County turns and gives the two of them a wink. "Boys, this is Lord Bowler, who _used_ to be the best tracker in the West."

"I still am," Bowler snaps immediately. "All right, fine. Come in and sit down while I get my things. But don't touch my Lalique crystal!"

He turns and storms into the house. County follows at a more leisurely pace and gestures for Deryn and Alek to do the same.

"Where's Lenore?" County asks Bowler's back as the larger man disappears down a hallway framed by bookshelves and glass-faced china cabinets.

"Visitin' friends in Hard Rock," he calls back.

"Give her my best, will you?"

"I will!" comes the distant, snarled response. Then a door slams.

Some of the china rattles in the cabinets.

"I think that vineyard's been good for him," County says to the butler, who's unobtrusively shut the front door behind them and is now standing patiently, hands folded, ready to be needed. "He's a lot more mellow."

Reginald is too dignified to smile, but he does sound pleased: "Indeed, sir."

Deryn peers about the foyer. Lord Bowler must be more of a Darwinist than not, because there isn't any Clanker gadgetry to be seen beyond a grandfather clock and some table lamps. The curio cabinets, picture frames, and furniture have the smooth, organic curves of fabricated wood... and all of it looks barking expensive.

"Careful," the marshal says. Deryn turns from examining the dangling crystals of the chandelier to see Alek's gotten too close to a cabinet full of sparkling dishes and _objets d'art_. For a moment, like a reflex, she wonders where Bovril is and if it's not touching some of Bowler's Lalique crystal. Then she remembers.

Those German bastards.

Hopefully, with Dr. Barlow there, Bovril isn't too frightened. Still, it must be overwhelming for the wee beastie, to be separated from her and Alek both in such a violent way. It's clever enough to know that the Germans have no good intentions... if they haven't already done away with it.

Impatience itches along her spine and sick anger curls in her guts. She suddenly wants to be _off_, not idling in a mansion foyer. "How much longer will it be?" she demands.

"Knowing Bowler," County begins – only to be interrupted by a door banging open and heavy footfalls coming towards them. "Right now," he finishes with a small smile.

"Reginald, keep my dinner warm," the bounty hunter orders as he reappears. He's still huge and frightening. Now he's wearing an old black duster with military insignia on the shoulders, a bowler hat with a fancy ribbon around the crown, and enough guns to supply the Committee's entire barking revolution back in Istanbul.

"Yes, sir, of course," Reginald says, bowing.

Bowler turns to the rest of them and snaps, "All right, come on," as if they're the reason for the delay in departure.

But Deryn's not of a mind to argue. They all troop out to the waiting carriage and somehow fit inside again, despite Lord Bowler taking up most of the space. The driver whips up the team, and the carriage rattles into motion.

"There ain't no orbs mixed up in this, right?" Bowler demands of County. He shifts in his seat, possibly because of the enormous shotgun holstered on his back.

The marshal spreads his hands. "Not as far as I know."

"First good news yet," Bowler says, scowling, though none of it makes sense to Deryn. "Now what am I supposed to track and how am I supposed to track it?"

Mr. County briefly describes the situation with the professor and the lady boffin. He spends a long time describing the shoot-out in the Westerfield Club's courtyard, concluding with, "I hit an oil line or something. It has to be leaking like crazy. Just follow the trail."

The bounty hunter _hmphs_. Then he folds his arms over his chest, stretches out his legs as far as he can in the tight space (forcing both Deryn and Alek to squirm aside), crosses his boots at the ankles, and tips his hat down over his eyes. "Knew I shoulda stayed in Napa," is all he says.

And that's all that anyone says for the rest of the ride. They jolt and clatter their way back to the Westerfield Club in grim silence. The fog hasn't cleared any when they draw to a halt in front of the entrance to the Club's ruined courtyard – or, rather, several yards down from the entrance.

There's a bit of a traffic clog at the entrance.

Two of the San Francisco Fire Department's water-carrying elephantines are standing in the street, firemen milling all around the beasties' massive feet. Fire hoses are unrolled and leaking on the cobblestones; no more so than the extra-long trunks of the elephantines themselves, which the beasties are curling and uncurling impatiently.

For that matter, the firemen look fairly impatient, too.

A quartet of them are arguing with the man who's standing in the middle of the courtyard gate, resolutely blocking the entrance.

Surprisingly, Deryn notes as they leave the taxi carriage, it's that weedy lawyer Mr. Poole. _Preserve the scene until we get back_, the marshal had told him, and indeed he is. Deryn understands why: if they're to track oil trails, they can't have hoses spraying water about and washing it all away. Still, it seems a risk. The fires were mostly out before they left to fetch Bowler, but fires have a way of starting up again, too.

Poole's fierce expression fades into undisguised relief when they reach him. "It'll just be another minute," he tells one of the firemen, sounding like a weedy lawyer again.

"Mister," the fireman says, frowning hard under his helmet and a prodigious mustache, "if you want your own place to burn down, that's fine. But we've got a duty to protect the city –"

Bowler steps up to the fireman and slaps a small leather satchel against his chest. "Here, hold this."

The fireman looks both puzzled and annoyed. "What's this for?"

"To spit your teeth into," Bowler growls, looming over the man, "if you don't get out of our way!"

The fireman blinks. Looks down at the satchel. Back up at Bowler.

"We'll be over there," the fireman tells Poole.

The firemen go stand by their elephantines. County, Bowler, Alek, and Deryn hurry into the courtyard.

"Oh – Mr. Hohenberg," the lawyer says, falling in with them. "Count Volger was taken to the hospital. Nothing serious," he adds hastily. "The doctor wanted more sterile conditions. He'll be back within the hour. And your monkey calmed down considerably once we gave it some strawberries."

"It's a loris, actually," Deryn says.

"Thank you, Mr. Poole," Alek says politely – though Deryn can tell exactly how glad he is to hear that Volger's all right.

"The police have put up roadblocks throughout the city," the lawyer says to County. "But they haven't found a Packard with gunshot damage."

County pulls a face. "We always knew the police would be pretty useless. Bowler, let's do this fast."

Bowler _hmphs_. " _'Let's_ do this'? _I'm_ gonna be the one doing all the work."

Alek asks, "How does one track an oil leak?"

"I ain't lookin' forward to it, that's for damn sure," Bowler says. He turns to Poole, pointing at the lawyer with one large, warning finger. "And I expect to be well compensated for my time and difficulty."

Poole sputters. "Bowler, this is a matter of national – _global_ – security!"

"We'll work out details later," County says, elbowing Bowler in the side. "The walker was right here."

Deryn squints at the cobblestones. There's a rather large pool of black oil amidst the chunks of masonry and ash. Well, that's easy enough; but it'll be trickier in the street, where hundreds of walkers are dripping oil every day.

"I can see that, County." Lord Bowler crouches, pushing his duster out of his way. There's a knife sticking from the top of his right boot, Deryn notices, that makes hers look like a toothpick. Despite everything, she feels a brief pang of jealousy. Maybe, when this is all over, she can give it a try.

Bowler touches the oil with a fingertip, then puts it to his tongue. He makes a face and spits a moment later, nearly catching one of Poole's expensive shoes.

The lawyer jumps back with a wordless exclamation. "Sorry," Bowler says, not sounding sorry at all. He rises from his crouch and (followed closely by Deryn, Alek, and Mr. County) carefully stalks the oil spatters to the street, then to the nearest corner, where he crouches and repeats the oil-tasting procedure.

"Yeah," he says, with a predatory, satisfied grin. "Yeah, I got you now."

And he sets off down the street.


	5. Chapter ONE, part 4

**Note:** The PPIE was approximately how I've described it here (and in Chapter 1 Part 1), though I've made a few changes: the 101 Ranch did not feature a saloon (at least not that I could find), and the Tower of Jewels wasn't used for mooring airships. The PPIE's actual buildings were torn down at the end of 1915, with the exception of the Palace of Fine Arts, which (after a total renovation in the '60s) still stands today.

Bowler tracked Whip and Dixie across San Francisco via pistachio shells in "And Baby Makes Three". He can track anything! :D

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The German spies' Packard passenger walker has several bullet holes in the outer metal skin, viscous drips of oil slowly pooling in the dirt beneath the engine, and a powerful burnt smell of overheated metal.

It sits slightly canted to one side, the side door ajar, the cabin disappointingly – but predictably – empty.

"God's wounds," Alek says, gaping at it. He turns to Lord Bowler and gives a half-bow. The pistol holstered under his jacket shifts with the movement, and he shifts it back as he straightens. The borrowed holster doesn't quite fit, and neither does the gun; truth be told, he has a distaste for the things. He'd much prefer a saber. "I apologize, sir. I didn't believe that you could actually do it."

Bowler _hmphs_, then pulls a face and spits on the packed dirt of the parking lot. "And I ain't never doing it again, so don't nobody ask."

Deryn, meanwhile, has climbed into the cabin and is peering around. "Bovril's not here," she reports now, hopping down again.

Alek wasn't expecting to find the loris, but he still feels a sharp pang. "They've escaped again."

"Yeah, but they didn't go far. On foot, with that machine and two hostages…" Mr. County has one hand on the carved-ivory butt of his revolver, and the set of his jaw is grim.

"You thinkin'…?" Bowler says, casting a significant glance to the north.

County nods. "Best hiding place in the city."

Alek turns to face north as well. They're in the parking area on the corner of Lombard and Steiner. Silent, dark bulks of parked passenger walkers lie between them and the brilliantly lit fantasy land that sprang up, practically overnight, and now occupies the two-mile stretch of land between Fort Mason and the Presidio.

The pride of modern San Francisco. The grand gesture of American imperialism. The showplace of the world.

The Panama-Pacific International Exposition.

"You think that they went in there?" Alek asks, his eyebrows raising.

County shrugs. "Why not? Doctors everywhere, folks carrying strange equipment, lots of people at all hours..."

Bowler hooks his thumbs into his gun belt and looks grim as well. "Real easy to hide in a crowd, kid."

"Barking spiders," Deryn says. She pushes a hand through her hair, frowning in the direction of the Exposition. Fog has shrouded it so thickly tonight that the Tower of Jewels is merely a brighter glow amongst a cloud, its moored airships all but invisible. Likewise, the noise of the crowd inside is audible as a dull tumult rather than anything distinct. "We can't search the whole place!"

"Yeah, too bad Germany doesn't have its own building," Bowler says. "That'd be nice."

All of the American states and dozens of countries are hosted in "pavilions" on the Avenue of Nations. Sweden's building is particularly impressive, as is the Chinese Pavilion; Japan's is nestled within a large garden as well. (The Ottoman Empire has a pavilion but not, sadly, an ambassador's anarchist assistant on staff.)

Neither Germany nor Austria-Hungary, however, are represented – a discreet acknowledgement of the ongoing war.

"Could we alert the Exposition authorities?" Alek asks. There are plainclothes police detectives and the occasional Pinkerton keeping an eye on the facilities.

"If our Germans are hiding out in the Expo, then they've probably got friends in high places," County says, practical. "We don't wanna tip our hand."

Bowler grunts an agreement. "Come on. Maybe we'll get lucky and they had to buy tickets."

The four of them start towards the nearest entrance, at the termination of Fillmore Street into Chestnut. Alek finds himself missing Dr. Barlow's loris and, of course, Bovril. This seems to be the exact sort of situation that lorises were designed for. But Dr. Barlow's loris was far too rattled to be of any real use, repeating only gibberish.

Perhaps he should have brought it along regardless –

County stops short, slapping the back of his hand into Bowler's chest and then pointing at something in the darkness.

Alek squints. The lights from the Exposition make it difficult to see anything, even without the fog. The streetlamps only compound the problem.

But the man who suddenly darts from the shadows towards the Fillmore Street entrance is quite visible.

"It's a lookout!" Deryn exclaims, even as Alek recognizes the flash of red as a waiter's waistcoat.

And then they are off in pursuit. Deryn keeps pace despite her knee; Alek has a fleeting worry that she'll end up injuring it more this way.

The Fillmore Street entrance has a ticket agent still on duty. The man is smoking a cigar and leaning against a wall, but he straightens and moves to block the German lookout. The German stiff-arms him and runs past as he stumbles back.

"Pardon us!" County calls to the ticket agent as the four of them go by.

_Turn left_, Alek thinks at the German, a trifle desperate. Left is the Festival Hall, the Avenue of Palms, the Court of Flowers. Relatively easy places to corner someone.

To the right is The Joy Zone: "amusement and concessions" and the one part of the Exposition sure to be overflowing with crowds.

The German skids, nearly losing his balance along with the flat cap that flies backward from his head… and turns right.

Alek swears.

In the half-second it takes them to reach the same corner, a large group of people emerge from the Ghirardelli Chocolate Company's store, effectively blocking the Zone's sole avenue. They push through, but are separated. Within moments Alek has lost sight of the other three as well as the German spy.

The Zone is a crush. Everyone's trying to see whatever they can before the Exposition closes in a matter of hours, children want to eat and play games, and vendors are pushing for a few more sales. The queue for the Racing Coaster alone probably stretches back to the Irish castle.

He presses on – and someone grabs his hand. Deryn.

"Blisters, I'm glad I found you," she says. She's slightly out of breath and has the German's lost flat cap tucked into her belt.

He squeezes her hand, drawing comfort from the familiar warmth of her grasp. With the both of them appearing to be boys, he really ought to let go, but he doesn't. "Let's find the others."

He and Deryn struggle forward for a while, searching for any of three needles in a chaotic haystack, before she drags him to a halt outside the moving picture theatre (which has been, much to his amusement, showing the latest installment of _The Exploits of Elaine_).

"This is daft – give me a lift!" Deryn demands, grabbing the nearest lamppost.

He glances at her knee. "Can you climb it -?"

"I can bloody climb anything!"

Alek quickly laces his hands together. She sets the boot of her uninjured leg into them and pushes off as he lifts. It's enough to allow her to reach the elegantly scrolled bar holding the lamp proper; she hoists herself up onto it with an economical grace learnt on the _Leviathan_'s ratlines.

Deryn peers out at the crowd while Alek keeps an anxious watch for Exposition officials. She's almost invisible from directly beneath – hidden by the bright electrikal lamplight – but there's no need to be caught where they aren't supposed to be.

Again, that is.

Suddenly she whistles: high, piercing, and loud enough to be heard over the excited screams coming from the Racing Coaster and the Aeroscope. A proper airman's whistle, in other words. Heads in all directions swivel towards her.

"Oi!" she shouts, cupping her hands around her mouth, then points.

Alek stands on tiptoe, but can't see what she does. The most he can make out is a ripple in the crowd where Mr. County and Lord Bowler are pushing their way through.

"Where?" Alek calls up to Deryn.

"The barking Ranch!"

He doesn't wait for her to climb down, but takes off across the crowded plaza to the north side of the Zone. The 101 Ranch may be a model of the "Real 'Wild' West", but like all of the Zone exhibits, it isn't that large, and the wall behind it backs onto the grounds of Fort Mason. There are several wharves and multiple roads connected to the fort.

Many exits. Many ways to lose their only lead.

At the entrance to the 101 Ranch, the crowd abruptly ends, and Alek pushes forward into a semi-circle of curiously empty space.

He catches himself. Just in time, too, as he's come across a "Real 'Wild' West" standoff.

The German spy is standing inside the ranch; Mr. County is several paces away, beneath the wooden 101 Ranch sign. The German's hand is hovering near the pistol holstered under his jacket; he looks like a cornered animal, out-of-breath and dangerous. The US Marshal's hands are hanging loosely at his side. He merely looks out of breath.

Lord Bowler is off to the left, casting concerned glances in Mr. County's direction while helping a frail, elderly lady regain her feet. Alek supposes the German knocked the woman down.

"Now, let's not do anything crazy," County says in a calming tone. He lifts one hand – not the one closest to his revolver – and the German spy makes a sudden grab for his pistol –

- County moves, lightning fast -

- and the pistol that the German has drawn drops into the dirt some distance away, shot out of his hand with uncanny accuracy.

The spectators erupt in wild cheers. To them, this must seem part of the Exposition – a show staged by the Ranch for their entertainment.

The German (clutching his injured hand) turns and runs, half-falling. Mr. County pursues, heedless of the fairgoers who want to congratulate him further.

Impulsively, Alek chases after them. They pass a small stockade where a few drowsing, docile cows pay them no attention. Instead of trying to scale the whitewashed wall beyond that, the German spy dashes inside one of the Ranch's buildings.

Of course it would be the saloon.

The swinging doors slam against the walls, hard enough to raise dust and rattle glass. Mr. County tackles the man around the legs and brings him crashing to the floor with even greater force. Alek is following rather too closely and nearly ends up adding to the pile.

Instead, he makes a hasty, last-minute sidestep directly into one of the waitresses. Much to his great mortification, both of them are knocked down, sending her tray of drinks tumbling and smashing. To his greater mortification, she is wearing attire appropriate to a Wild West saloon: fishnet stockings, garters, and not terribly much else.

He stammers an apology as he stands, but it goes unheard in the tumult that's engulfed the saloon. Half of the patrons are in the process of making a hasty exit; the other half are gathered around the wrestling match on the floor and are urging them on enthusiastically. The man playing the piano, apparently enjoying the show as well, begins to bang out a merry, jangling song. It makes a bizarre accompaniment to the life-or-death struggle.

God's wounds, if this is anything like the _real_ Wild West…

For an older gentleman, Marshal County is acquitting himself reasonably well. But then the German gets in a lucky punch to County's temple, momentarily stunning him. The spy draws a knife.

He has no clear shot, and he's certain to hit County, but Alek hasn't any choice, either. He reaches for his pistol and then stops, an idea shoving itself forward.

"Behind you!" he shouts in German.

The distraction isn't much; Alek can't help thinking that Deryn would have found a more clever solution. Still, the spy jerks his head around to look, enough for County to recover. He grabs the spy's knife hand and forces it away, knocking the weapon free in the process.

The knife clatters to the saloon's wooden floor not far from Alek's foot. He quickly steps on the handle and draws it closer with his boot, out of the spy's reach, then picks it up.

It's a German-made knife, stamped with an Iron Cross; unsurprising. But something about it catches at his memory. It looks -

"Oh, for Pete's sake," a woman's voice says beside him, lilting and amused and exasperated all at once. She has masses of blonde ringlets, perfect ivory skin, and, while more elegantly clothed than the waitresses, seems to have likewise forgot the majority of her dress. "At this rate we'll be here all night."

She winks one large green eye at Alek, giving the words _we'll be here all night_ an abruptly salacious air.

Alek opens his mouth to speak, but he finds himself rather at a loss.

On the floor, the German punches Mr. County in the side. He makes a pained noise before rallying and landing a punch of his own.

The woman sighs and produces a small silk reticule. She removes something from it and hands the bag to Alek with a dismissive, "Here, handsome, make yourself useful."

Then she cocks her small, pearl-handled revolver and aims it – straight at Mr. County.


	6. Interlude

**Note:** A quick shout-out in here to the blacksmithing Schwenke sisters, Ilsa and Katrina, who appeared in "No Man's Land" and "Steel Horses" and seemed to have an… er, _interesting_ arrangement with Professor Wickwire. Or at least Ilsa did. ;)

John Bly (the series' Big Bad, played to creepy, reptilian perfection by Billy Drago) kidnapped Wickwire in "Senior Spirit".

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Being a hostage is quite tiresome.

Dr. Nora Barlow, _née_ Darwin, has endured a kidnapping, a most uncomfortable walker ride, a march through the Exposition at gunpoint, and now finds herself unceremoniously deposited on the bridge of a vessel that has seen better days.

Her dress is in a state, and her bowler hat – the pride of any fabricator – has been lost somewhere along the journey. Worst of all is the façade she must maintain: that of a helpless, frightened woman who hasn't an ounce of wit in her head now that these dashed men with guns have appeared.

Quite tiresome indeed.

But rather vital to survival.

She glances around the bridge, taking in her new surroundings, then looks over her shoulder. The leader of the saboteurs, Jäger, is preoccupied with the men carrying Wickwire's machine, particularly the man with a large, purpling knot on his temple. Judging from what Dr. Barlow managed to overhear in the walker, the bruise is due to one Mr. Sharp… and the girl's impeccable aim.

_Well done, my dear_, she thinks, watching the man stagger badly. He will be of little use to his fellows in this condition, and might prove to be an advantage for herself and the professor, in the event of their escape.

"Would you please let go?" she asks the man holding her by the arm. The quaver in her voice is equal parts deliberate and false. Dr. Barlow does not _quaver_.

The man – she believes his name is Mueller – leers at her and gives a coarse reply in German.

She bristles inwardly. Outwardly, she feigns confusion and shrinks away, pulling against the hard grip on her bicep. Mueller's leer widens.

"Hey!" Professor Wickwire says, frowning in rebuke. He moves as though to step towards them. The hulking brute manhandling him (appropriately named Braun) checks the elder gentleman with a growl, and Wickwire contents himself with an indignant, "That's no way to talk to a lady!"

The perspicacious loris curled around Dr. Barlow's neck shivers. "Go. No way," it whispers in its small voice.

Indeed, the creature's assessment isn't far off, Dr. Barlow thinks. They are outnumbered and in a location that shall be difficult to escape from, even if they should get away from the armed and dangerous saboteurs – men that have made it very clear that they will not hesitate to use violence.

"Stop playing," Jäger orders in German. "We have more important matters."

"_Jawohl, Leutnant_." Mueller slackens his grip and Dr. Barlow's breath eases despite herself. She will bear bruises for a while.

The machine is carried onto the bridge, and Dr. Barlow and Wickwire are moved to the periphery, where they shall be out of the way. The Germans begin wrestling the machine into place beside the great ship's wheel, which occupies the center of the bridge. Beyond the wheel, beyond the glass of the windows, the Exposition is a hazy, smeared glow in the fog.

"I had no idea you spoke German," Dr. Barlow says to Wickwire, in a quiet aside.

"Oh, I don't speak much," he says. He's watching the machine intently. The Germans set it on the floor with a clatter and clunk, much to Jäger's visible displeasure. Wickwire himself twitches his mustache like a worried father. "Really only what pertains to blacksmithing and, uh… bedroom matters."

She keeps the amusement from her face, and from her voice as well: "I see."

Behind them, Mueller chuckles. It's as pleasant as his leer. Dr. Barlow flinches in his grasp, as though frightened by the sound, and he chuckles again.

_Abominably_ tiresome.

"Say, fellows," the professor says suddenly, gesturing at his machine with a jerk of his whiskered chin, "what exactly do you have in mind for that?"

One of the working Germans opens his mouth to answer, then thinks better of it and looks to Jäger.

Jäger has kept his back to Dr. Barlow and Wickwire – an overt and deliberate slight, she's certain – but now slowly turns. A predatory smile lurks in the corners of his mouth. "We intend to keep it."

Wickwire darts a glance at the machine, then Dr. Barlow, then Jäger. "Well, uh, it's not going to do you much good. Damaged, I mean."

Jäger's focus has not wavered from Wickwire. He smiles; the expression does not reach his eyes. "Yes, _Herr _Professor. Which is why you are going to fix it. Immediately."

"Huh." Wickwire stands a little straighter, and the muddled vagueness leaves him as he meets Jäger's icy stare square on and says, "To be perfectly frank, I'd rather leave it as it is. I don't think you gentlemen have the best intentions."

Dr. Barlow realizes she may have underestimated the professor. _Bravely said_, she thinks. Foolish, perhaps, but brave.

Jäger takes a step towards them, hands clasped loosely behind his back. "You will fix the machine."

It is not a request.

"No," Wickwire says, cheery, almost giddy. "No, I really won't."

Jäger cocks his head to one side. "You are not… intimidated?"

"No offense, son," the professor says, as if comforting a young and disappointed child. "I've been kidnapped by John Bly himself. Tough act to follow, you know!"

"I see," Jäger says. He takes another few steps in their direction – precise, controlled, like a great cat stalking its prey – and stops in front of Dr. Barlow, rather than Wickwire. There is no trace of desire or perversion in his smile, nor in the way he runs the back of his forefinger along her jaw.

That, perhaps, is what makes it all the more chilling.

Dr. Barlow would very much like to match his cold stare with one of her own, but, conscious of the role she is playing, she closes her eyes and turns her face away, as if she is too terrified to bear his attention.

Jäger says quietly, "How fortunate, _Herr_ Professor, that we have a hostage to your goodwill and cooperation."

Silence for a long moment. Dr. Barlow is strongly tempted to peek. She doesn't.

Then –

"All right," Wickwire says, resigned, and bitterly so. "You have my full cooperation. _If_ you promise to leave her alone and unharmed."

"Of course," Jäger says, his voice light. "There is no need for unpleasantness. We are civilized men, after all."

_Oh, indeed, quite civilized_, Dr. Barlow thinks cynically, blinking her eyes open and feigning a soft cry of relief. Jäger's line has a practiced ring; it is clearly meant to instill fear, rather than provide reassurance.

It's done neither for Wickwire. The professor is scowling as he removes his jacket and rolls up his shirtsleeves.

Dr. Barlow can't attest to any fear, either. Of course she is _concerned_ – only a fool wouldn't be – but she is hardly afraid.

"Quickly, _Herr_ Professor," Jager says. He withdraws a pocket watch and checks the time, then closes it with a snap. "We need to make our farewells to this great city."

"That's assuming it can be fixed at all," Wickwire says. He crouches next to the machine. "I wouldn't – that was a pretty nasty bump it got."

The injured man touches the large bruise on his head and winces.

Wickwire scratches his chin. "But – hmm – it looks like… Is there a screwdriver?"

One of the Germans brings a toolkit. Wickwire fishes around for the screwdriver, then sets to work. Within moments, it's obvious that he's lost in the project.

"Excellent." Jäger turns a wintery smile on Dr. Barlow. "I hope to keep you in good condition, Doctor, for your presentation to the Kaiser."

She quavers: "I – I haven't…"

He _tsk_s. "His Majesty will wish to meet you. He will be delighted to have a Darwin as his… _guest_."

As she suspected, her abduction from the Westerfield Club was no mere happenstance, nor even a convenient sword to hang over Wickwire's neck. For the nonce, she will keep the inventor in line. Ultimately, she will be used as a rallying point for the Clanker nations, and as a bargaining chip, should the Kaiser need such. She imagines the German propagandists rubbing their hands together with glee, like the ham-fisted villains in those movie serials Alek and Deryn so enjoy.

She hesitates, as though struggling for words. In the gap, Wickwire says, "Lift that out of the way, son."

"This? The transmitter?" the German with the toolkit asks, befuddled.

Wickwire waves him off. "No, no, that's the, uh… the…"

"Duplexer," the loris announces from Dr. Barlow's shoulder.

Jäger's eyes shift to the creature. His blue gaze narrows.

Dr. Barlow keeps the consternation from her face. Now is _not_ the time to demonstrate unexpected abilities.

"Duplexer! Yes, that's the word. And it's fine." Wickwire points at the German. "Move it so I can check beneath."

Jäger stares at the loris for a moment longer, then gives Dr. Barlow a shallow and ironic bow. "Doctor."

She says nothing – only touches a trembling hand to her throat and blinks rapidly, holding back entirely imaginary tears.

"Keep him working," Jäger says in German to Braun. To Mueller, he says, "And keep her here as an incentive to the professor."

Braun and Mueller respond with a rough chorus of "_Jawohl_," and, satisfied, Jäger turns on his heel and departs, gesturing for the injured man to follow, which he does.

Wickwire does not appear to notice.

Dr. Barlow waits for some minutes – long enough to determine that Jager is not going to suddenly reappear. She pretends to sway in Mueller's grasp.

"I-I'm feeling rather faint," she says. "Might I sit down?"

She has never felt faint in her life.

Mueller thinks about it, then shrugs. He half-drags her to the nearest chair and pushes her down into it. Dr. Barlow cowers (she does not _cower_), and turns to face the wall of the bridge, looking as far away from her captor as possible.

Mueller chuckles.

Dr. Barlow begins memorizing the ship's deck plan helpfully attached to the wall.


	7. Chapter TWO, part 1

**Note:** Dixie is the _best_. She's Mae West in the Wild West, a good bad girl with a heart of gold, singing in saloons and stealing hearts and getting mixed up in all sorts of trouble, and it's glorious. She went off to China at the end of "And Baby Makes Three"; I'm assuming she didn't stay there for long, since she was due to be a regular cast member in the never-produced second season.

Wickwire's rubber bullets are put to good use in "High Treason, Part 2".

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Chapter TWO

"The Fog of War"

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Jumping from the lamppost may have been a mistake.

Deryn's dodgy knee – twinging earlier from the trek across San Francisco's streets – is now sending up a bright spike of pain with every step. Nonetheless, she hurries through the crowd toward the entrance to the 101 Ranch.

Limping, mind. But _quickly_.

She wouldn'tve jumped at all, except for Mr. County shooting at the German. If guns are being drawn (in the middle of the sodding Exposition, no less), she needs to be with her allies, not perched on a pole like some daft bird.

The excitement seems to be over already; the thick knot of people around the gate is breaking up, going back to the regular Exposition attractions. The German spy, Mr. County, and Alek are nowhere to be seen when Deryn arrives. Lord Bowler, meanwhile, is handing off a wee old granny to a collection of fretful relatives.

"Sorry things got a little rough, ma'am," he says solicitously. He touches the brim of his hat, looking more like a soft-hearted sheriff than a man strutting around with an army's worth of weapons. "You folks enjoy the rest of the Exposition."

The relatives thank him and lead the granny away as Deryn comes to stand beside Bowler.

"Do you know who that nice man was?" the granny asks her family, giddy as a lass. "Lord Bowler, manhunter!"

Lord Bowler, manhunter, stands a little straighter. His eyebrows lift and his mouth stretches out into a pleased sort of expression. Almost a smile.

Then the granny adds, "Brisco County, Jr.'s faithful companion!"

Scowl again.

Deryn clears her throat, eyeing the men hurrying out of one of the buildings. Someone's playing a piano terribly loud – and just plain terribly. "Where did they go, sir?"

"Saloon," Bowler says, gruff. He glances down at her, then down at her knee, and frowns. "You okay, kid?"

Blisters, is it _that_ obvious?

"Aye," she says. "Only hurts when I sing."

He _hmphs_ – approvingly, she thinks – and draws the sawed-off rifle strapped to his back. "Brisco and His Highness got back-up in there, but we might as well be the cavalry."

"Aye," she says again, then realizes what he's said: "D'you mean there's someone else –"

The sudden sharp, flat crack of a gunshot cuts her off.

"Aw, damn," Lord Bowler says.

And then they're both running for the saloon, fast as they can. A fresh wave of men are scrambling out, making for a difficult swim against the tide. Bowler reaches the swinging doors first and bursts inside with his rifle leading the way and a revolver close behind.

Deryn dodges around a stumbling, portly man with a florid face and drink spilled down his shirtfront, and then she, too, is inside the saloon, her rigging knife in her hand.

It takes a moment to understand what she's looking at.

A flock of barely-dressed waitresses is scattered around the room, some of them clutching trays to their considerable chests. The German spy is sprawled on the floor unmoving. Mr. County is dragging himself to his feet, leaning on a barstool to do so. Alek is unhurt (there's a relief) but has one hand around a knife and the other around the wrist of a blonde-haired lady – who herself is holding a small derringer.

Of course, judging from the garters, fishnet stockings, and décolletage on display, "lady" might not be the right word.

Lord Bowler, however, seems to know exactly what's about. He lowers his guns, releasing the hammer on the revolver before returning it to its holster, and touches his hat brim with a pleasant, "Miss Dixie."

"Hello, Bowler," the lady says, equally pleasant. She arches an eyebrow at Alek, who hastily lets go of her wrist and steps back, nearly as red in the face as that portly man had been.

"Barking spiders," Deryn says. Where to sodding _start_?

They've got the lookout, at least. And it doesn't seem as though any more fighting's likely to happen soon. She tucks her knife away again, telling herself it's daft to feel disappointed about that.

Marshal County gestures at the German spy and then at the lady, saying crossly, "A little close, don't you think, Dix?"

"Nice to see you too, Brisco," the lady retorts. There's a lilt to her voice that matches the sashay in her step as she moves to County's side. She takes his arm, nestling against him, and nods in Alek's direction. "It would've been a little less close if Junior here had kept his hands to himself."

Now, _that_ sounded pure dead indecent.

Deryn gives Alek a look. He flushes scarlet and says, "I thought she meant to shoot him. Mr. County, that is."

"Don't worry about it, kid," County says. He grins at the lady, who dimples and bats her eyes. "This is Dixie Cousins. She has that kind of reputation."

Deryn reckons that Dixie Cousins has a reputation, all right. She coughs, getting everyone's attention again.

"Is he dead?" she asks. Crouching seems a bad idea right now, given her knee, so she nudges the German's body with the toe of her boot. There isn't any blood, but there might not be, with a bullet that small.

The lady waves off the question. She sounds amused and faintly bored: "Oh, he's fine. It was loaded with rubber bullets."

"One of Wickwire's inventions," the marshal adds, pointing a thumb in the general direction of elsewhere.

"Why use rubber bullets?" Deryn asks. She crosses her arms over her chest and lifts an eyebrow of her own. "Seems daft."

"Mm. In my line of work, I'm constantly surrounded by powerful, dangerous men." Dixie lets go of Mr. County's arm to pass the derringer off to a waitress, who takes it as though it's a dead rat. The lady smirks at Deryn, then slides an unreadable glance towards the marshal. "A smart girl always carries a few rubbers."

The marshal gives her an unreadable look right back.

"Uh," Bowler says. He clears his throat. "Uh, yeah, I'm sure that's a real good idea."

Dixie puts her hands on her hips. "Now, would somebody mind telling me what's going on?"

County says, "Professor Wickwire's been kidnapped, Dix."

The lady presses a hand to her chest. It's a melodramatic gesture, but the sentiment seems genuine. "Oh no! What happened this time?"

_This time_. Deryn cuts a glance at Lord Bowler, who catches her looking and raises an knowing eyebrow, as if to say _What did I tell you?_

County says, "German spies disguised as caterers blew up the Westerfield Club library, then grabbed the professor, Charles Darwin's granddaughter, Wickwire's latest invention, and their monkey." He jerks a thumb in Deryn and Alek's direction.

"It's a loris, actually," Alek says.

Dixie doesn't appear to hear the correction. She says to Mr. County, "What do you need me to do?"

"Does this place have a back room?"

The lady nods. "My office."

The marshal scratches at the back of his neck. "Can we, uh, borrow it?"

Dixie scoffs. "Boy, you sure are something, Brisco. Oh, fine, why not."

"Got anything to restrain him?"

The lady _hmms_ and lifts both eyebrows, a small smile playing on her painted lips. She turns to a cluster of waitresses that have wandered close, the better to peer at the German spy. And at Alek. And at "Dylan", sod it all.

Deryn pretends not to notice the giggles and fluttering eyelashes. Girls like an airman's swagger; she's used to it. She's used to girls cooing over Alek, too, though she takes a dimmer view of _that_.

"Charlotte, Bertha – get the rope," Dixie orders. "Millie, Violet – go outside and inform any customers that we're closed for a… private party."

One of the girls (impossible to tell if it's Millie or Violet) says, "What if it's the police?"

The lady winks, one side of her mouth curling up. "Distract them."

Millie and Violet flash wicked smiles of their own, adjust their bustiers (down, not up), and saunter out.

Deryn glances at Alek. He's staring fixedly at a painting on the wall, but his ears have turned pink.

Clanker. As if he's never seen a girl's chest – but, then again, Deryn has rather less to show than these painted-up sparrows.

"Bowler, gimme a hand," County says. The two men crouch, one at the arms and one at the feet, and pick up the unconscious German spy. They shuffle and lurch towards the door at the back of the saloon.

Dixie starts organizing the other waitresses, directing them to clean up the mess. It seems to involve quite a bit of giggling, coy glances, and artful displays of bent-over bums.

Deryn throws a sharp elbow to Alek's side. "Come on, _Dummkopf_."

"Wait," he says, before she can take more than two steps. He holds out a knife, hilt-first. "What do you make of it?"

She takes the knife from him and tries the balance while she examines it. Aside from the engraved Iron Cross, and a slightly different profile, it looks just like the one in her boot.

"It's a rigging knife," she says, frowning. She flips it over. Not a bad one, either. "Where'd you find it?"

"Our friend was carrying it," Alek says. He glances over his shoulder, in the direction the lawmen had carried the spy. There's some thumping and banging coming from the back room, but nothing too alarming.

Deryn decides there's no point in letting a good knife go to waste, so she tucks it into her other boot. "Blisters, you don't suppose he's on an airship?"

"Or a sailing ship." Alek frowns – either in thought or at the waitresses, Deryn isn't certain. "There are several at the Marina."

That's true enough. Rigging knifes are for rigging, aloft or a-sea. She hasn't been minding the ships docked at the Marina. She does know exactly how many airships are moored at the Tower of Jewels, on the other hand.

"Barking trouble either way," she says. County had ordered a police blockade on all of the roads, but that'll do sod all if the Germans are escaping by sea or air. Of course, no ship would dare set out blind. "Lucky there's all this fog."

Alek nods grimly. "But it can't last forever."

"Here you go, boys," Dixie Cousins says, a coiled length of rope hanging negligently from one gloved hand. She passes the rope to Alek, then produces a small ivory-handled fan and flicks it open with an expert snap.

"Thank you," Alek says. He hesitates, adjusting his grip on the rope, then says, "I do apologize for interfering earlier. I didn't know -"

"And I didn't explain," the lady says, dismissing the apology. "No hard feelings."

There's a lilt and twist on _hard_. Not much – but enough to put a flush across Alek's face.

"Dylan Sharp," Deryn says abruptly, sticking her hand out for a shake. "Royal Air Service."

The lady smirks as she shakes hands, as though she knows something that Deryn doesn't. It's pure dead annoying.

Alek sketches a shallow bow instead of shaking hands. "Aleksander Hohenberg."

"You're that prince who wanted to be emperor," Dixie says without missing a beat. Somehow she makes it sound a trifle wicked.

"Yes – that is, I-I renounced my claim," he says, having trouble with the words.

The lady smiles and runs the edge of her fan along his jaw, as though she's testing to see how ripe the fruit is before she takes a bite. "You know, I used to work for an emperor."

Alek's gears seem to have entirely frozen now, so Deryn says, "Which one?" It doesn't sound very nice. Maybe that's because Deryn wants to punch the older woman square in her painted face.

Dixie makes that little humming noise again. "Of China."

Marshal County appears behind them, no doubt coming to see what's taking them so long to fetch the rope. Deryn's not of a mind to be rushed. She crosses her arms over her chest. "What'd you do?"

"I was the crown prince's nanny." She waves a hand, adding an airy, "But it didn't work out. They thought I might like to be an imperial concubine, and I thought they might like to go to hell." Dixie Cousins turns to the marshal. Her smile widens. "Luckily I had friends to rescue me."

"I seem to remember you did a fair amount of rescuing yourself," County says, a smile playing on his own face.

She _hmms_, then taps her fan on his chest before turning on her heel and walking away, hips swaying. "Go get your man, cowboy."

His smile grows. "Yes ma'am."

"Mr. County," Alek says, coming to life again. "Dylan and I have something that might be a clue."

The marshal looks at Deryn. She remembers the German's knife and retrieves it from her boot. "Rigging knife, sir. Means the bastard could be an airman."

"Or a sailor," County says, quick to draw the same conclusion as Alek. He takes the knife, turns it over in his hands, then gives it back. "Huh. Hey, Dix!"

"Brisco?" she calls back from across the saloon.

"I need some info on every ship down at the docks. Oh, and the airships at the Tower."

The lady puts her hands on her hips. "I have to do everything around here, don't I."

"Only because you do it so well," County says with a grin.

"Ain't that the truth," Dixie drawls, amused. She winks, tosses her golden curls, and slips through the saloon's swinging doors.

County grins after her for a moment, then returns his attention to Deryn and Alek, putting his hands on their shoulders and steering them towards the back room. "Dixie runs a club here in the city. She knows more about what's going on than the police do."

"Brilliant," Deryn says through her teeth. They come into the office – a wee closet of a room, scarcely large enough for a desk and a chair, though Deryn notices Dixie Cousins has also squeezed in a plushly upholstered divan and a rack of frilly, lacy clothes.

Lord Bowler has the German spy in a chair, one massive hand pinning the man upright. Tricky, since he's unconscious and slumping to the side. "Finally," the manhunter growls.

Deryn takes the rope from Alek. "I'll do this bit."

Bowler demands, "They tie good knots in the Air Service?"

"Aye," she says, hiding the wince when she crouches. A feather boa hanging from the clothes rack tickles at her neck, and she swats it away irritably. "The best."

"Hands behind his back," County instructs. "And get his feet, too."

One of the waitresses bustles in as Deryn sets to work. The sparrow is all flutters and knowing smiles, apparently unconcerned about the defenseless man they're hog-tying to a chair.

"Can I get you men anything?" she purrs.

"Yeah. A glass of water," Bowler says. "Tall one. Real cold. But no ice."

The waitress dimples. "Sure thing, honey."

Deryn finishes with the spy's hands and runs the rope under the chair. She loops the rope around his left ankle and the chair leg, pulls it tight, then repeats the process on the other side. The knots are as neat as the _Leviathan_'s bosun could ever wish, but she's a barking mess: she has to grab the back of the chair to lever herself upright again.

The feather boa tickles her on the way up, too. Sodding thing.

"Careful," Alek says in a low voice.

"Aye, Your Highness," she snaps, then regrets it straightaway. It's not his fault her knee aches, and it's not his fault these tarts all seem set on flirting with him. He's done nothing to encourage them, and she knows he hates the attention anyway.

She knows the truth.

He frowns at her. She sighs and drags a sleeve across her face.

"Sorry. My knee hurts," she says, instead of _I know I'm daft to be jealous_.

Alek's expression softens. He steps back so that she can take up a spot next to him, off to the side and out of the way of the lawmen. "Perhaps you should rest it."

"Aye, when this is over," she says. She bumps her hand against his. "I'll spend all day in the hotel room."

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "That sounds reasonable."

The waitress returns just as the German makes a soft groaning sound. Once again, she doesn't bat an eye. But if Dixie Cousins is running some sort of shady nightclub, it stands to reason her employees wouldn't fuss over such things.

"Here you go, darlin'," the waitress says sweetly, handing Bowler a tall glass of water.

"Thanks," he says. She sashays away. Bowler takes a sip of the water.

"How is it?" County asks.

"Ahh. Nice and cold," the manhunter says. He takes another sip, smacking his lips appreciatively, then steps forward and dashes the water into the German's face.

The man comes awake with a gasp and sputter. His arms jerk against the ropes, likely trying to get a hand up to wipe off his face. Deryn watches the realization of his circumstances dawn on him – tied to a chair, surrounded by his enemies and a heap of feathery, frilly costumes.

She also notices he's not going anywhere. Too right he's not.

"Hi," County says, perfectly friendly.

The German blinks water out of his eyes.

"Didn't catch your name earlier," the marshal says, with a wide and harmless smile. He sits on the divan, facing the spy. "I'm Brisco. Brisco County, Jr. And you are…?"

The German looks around at the rest of them uncertainly. "Schultz," he says. He has only a faint accent. In a city beset with an International Exposition, no surprise it had gone unnoticed, even in a room stuffed full of boffins.

"Schultz! Good to meet you. I'd shake hands, but…" The marshal laughs as if it's all a grand joke. Bowler laughs too, and – unseen by Schultz – makes a looping gesture at Deryn and Alek with one hand, his meaning clear: _go along with it_.

Blisters.

Deryn laughs, but it trails off quickly; Alek never gets much beyond a forced smile.

After a moment, Schultz gives a few uneasy chuckles. If the object is to make the man think they're all pure dead mad, she reckons they've succeeded.

County leans forward, resting one elbow on his knee, still grinning like a cat in cream. "Schultz, ol' pal, we've got a problem here, and I think _you_ might just have the solution."

Schultz shakes his head. "No. I know nothing."

"Nothing at all, huh?"

He shakes his head again, more vehemently this time. "Nothing."

County slaps his knee and turns around, pointing a thumb back at Schultz. "Go figure, Bowler. We grabbed the one guy who doesn't know anything. What are the odds?"

"Huh," Bowler says in mock astonishment. "Seems downright unlikely."

"You know, it does!" Another round of hearty laughter.

Deryn exchanges a glance with Alek. _Are they mad?_ He lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

County turns back to Schultz. The German flinches slightly, leaning away from the marshal. "Maybe he just doesn't know how to say it in English. Uh, Your Highness, care to help?"

Schultz's eyes lock on Alek, who seems surprised to be singled out. He gives the marshal a hard look, but then turns to the spy.

"If you know anything," Alek says in German, giving it some of Volger's haughtiness, "I would suggest that you tell them."

"I don't know anything," Schultz says in the same. "Even if I did, I wouldn't tell our plans to my enemies… or a traitor such as yourself, _Prince_."

The last bit is spat out, like Schultz can't stomach the taste of Alek's old title. Alek doesn't react, but Deryn bristles, and her fingers tighten into fists. Sodding bastard. She should've made those knots tighter.

"That sounds like a no," County says.

"_Sounds like_ we ain't got no use for him," Bowler says.

County slaps his knee again and stands. "All right, Schultz, I guess it's time to go."

The German blinks. "You… you are… releasing me?"

County waggles one hand side to side. "Mmm... yes and no. We're going to let you go –"

"Right into the bay," Bowler barks.

Schultz echoes, uncertain, "The bay?"

The manhunter steps forward and grabs the man's shirtfront, tipping the chair onto its two front legs. "With alla them _sharks_," he growls, his upper lip curled up and displaying quite a lot of predatory teeth.

Schultz goes pale.

"Can't turn you loose in the Expo," County says, reasonably. "I mean, not that you know anything about the spies who took Wickwire, his invention, and the lady doc, but there's always a chance you might run into them."

Schultz looks from County to Bowler and back again, clearly trying to decide if they're mad enough to do it.

"The water is very cold," Alek says in German. He and Deryn know this from experience; after being warned by the folks at the Inn, she'd dared him to shed his boots, roll up his trousers, and wade out alongside her. Their feet had been barking blue after a few minutes, but then they'd had the fun of warming each other up again.

"You might freeze to death before the sharks find you," Deryn adds, using German just for the small fun of surprising the two lawmen.

Schultz wets his lips. "I think… I remember something."

County's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh really."

"Yes, I – I do. I remember."

The marshal sits again and crosses his legs, balancing one ankle on his knee. "I dunno," he says, lacing his hands together over his stomach. "Seems pretty convenient, Schultz ol' buddy."

"He's lying," Bowler snaps. "We ain't got time for this, Brisco."

"No, no!" Schultz says, straining forward against the ropes. (Still not giving an inch, Deryn notes.) "Our leader is Jäger. _Leutnant_ Hans Jäger. He is – a specialist – I don't know how to say it – he came here to – to kidnap the professor. Germany needs his machine."

County _tsks_. "I'm not convinced. Bowler?"

Bowler makes a rumbling sound.

"_Bitte_," Schultz says. Desperate. "Please. Jäger will leave the city tonight, with or without me."

"When? How?"

"I don't know. I don't! The others know more – he never trusted me. God save me, he was right," Schultz adds in German, voice cracking in defeat.

County's dead serious now: "By airship or boat?"

Schultz shakes his head, shoulders slumped. His hair was slicked back at the start of their chase, but it's falling into his eyes now. The man's unraveling, in more ways than one. "We came on a boat," he says to his bound feet. "The _Santiago_, out of Guatemala."

County exchanges a glance with Lord Bowler. "Okay," County says. He stands, brushes off his hands, and points at the German spy. "You bought yourself some time, Schultz. Wait here."

Schultz begins to laugh, bitter and hopeless, sagging against his restraints.

Deryn and Alek file out after the lawmen, leaving the German spy alone in the office, his laughter now mixed with half-swallowed sobs. She shuts the door behind them without so much as a squick of pity.

The chase is on again.


End file.
